


Scratch Is Dead

by HarveyWallbanger



Series: Touched By the Hand of God [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Autopsy, Epistolary, Gen, Gore, Post-Finale, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 22:09:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19327057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: These are the things you love me for.





	1. Kaltes Ente

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MillicentCordelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillicentCordelia/gifts).



> One more, for the birthday of MillicentCordelia. This story takes place in the same continuity as "Something Scary", and it's necessary to have read that one for this one to make sense.  
> Robert Mapplethorpe once had a pet monkey called Scratch. When the monkey died, Robert Mapplethorpe exclaimed to a friend, "Scratch is dead!" The quote in the summary comes from Marc Almond's song, Things You Love Me For. The chapter titles come from, variously: Lightning Man, by Nitzer Ebb; Body Unknown, by Marc Almond; Miles Iz Ded, by The Afghan Whigs.  
> Please read the warnings and tags, Dear Reader.  
> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. This story and the work it's based on are fiction. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

What is going on in this place? That a man is no longer allowed to work at his own pace.  
“You took too long. Job’s off.” Jervis can hear the tension in Barbara’s jaw through the phone.  
“And what for us does this mean, Ms. Kean?”  
“It means that you’re on your own. Keep what you took from the warehouse, but don’t ask me for anything else.”  
Jervis smiles. “Why so curt? My feelings are hurt.”  
“I’ll hurt a lot more if you make any trouble for me. This is a gift from the universe. Accept it. And stay out of my way.”  
She hangs up.  
Jervis frowns. “A strange thing, wouldn’t you say? To be let go before the debt is paid?”  
Jonathan shrugs. “I’m not concerned. I have what I need for now. We can get more.”  
“Oh, yes. Now that we’re no longer beholden to Ms. Kean, think of what this means.”  
“Freedom.”  
Jervis looks at Jonathan. There’s a strangely… hesitant quality to Jonathan’s gaze. The rest of Jonathan’s face is obscured by the mask, but Jervis sees enough. He knows it well enough, himself. It’s difficult, plotting your own course after you’ve been subject for so long to someone else’s will. You forget how you once did things. You might even forget yourself. It would be easy. How terrible, the easiest things in life are.  
Jervis sighs. “Even the sharpest knives can fall to rust; left unused, will collect dust,” he says consolingly.  
Jonathan’s gloved hand moves up Jervis’ arm. Jervis leans into Jonathan’s touch, closer to him. The smell of burlap and chemicals rises from Jonathan’s body. Jervis breathes in deeply. It’s like perfume. Like the incense of the altar. In his hollow voice, Jonathan says: “You know what to do with dull knives, though.”  
Jervis looks up into those dark, those wondrous eyes. He whispers: “Sharpen them.”

There’s no mystery here.  
“Are you sure you want to do this?”  
“I’m sure.”  
Lucius sighs, hesitates a second, and gives Leslie the file.  
“Self-inflicted?” Leslie’s not sure whether or not she means it as a question. She skims the report. Everything’s in proper working order. Close contact entry wound from a large calibre bullet. The exit wound gapes at her from one of the attached photos. Gun powder residue on his right hand. No other injuries, pre-, peri-, or postmortem. The tail of the Y-incision traces the rise of his belly, dips down toward the pubic bone. High blood-alcohol, with bonus diazepam. An eroded pill among the stomach contents like a grain of sand in an oyster. Foie gras. Arugula. Scallops. Lobster. Rare steak. Crêpes Suzette. Champagne. Red wine. Whiskey.  
Nothing left to see here.  
It’s disgustingly… neat.  
Oswald wasn’t neat.  
He dripped.  
Like a stopped-up sink with a leaky tap, overflowing.  
He’s dripped all over her life for two decades. Everywhere she went, there he was. There before her, even. Sometimes, he almost looked contrite. Sorry to be making such a mess.  
“Who made the identification?”  
“Jim.”  
“You’re letting that stand?”  
“Lee, there’s no doubt as to who it is.”  
“Who conducted the autopsy?”  
“I did.”  
“You’re not a pathologist.”  
Does Lucius look ashamed of himself? “Jim asked me to.”  
“Really.” One day, she’s going to get really offended at constantly being cut out.  
“It’s not regulation, but this was a special case.”  
“Special, how?”  
Lucius looks to the side. “This is off the record.”  
“Sure.”  
“Jim was concerned that Oswald could have been drugged.”  
“He seems to have done a pretty good job of drugging himself.”  
“What I mean is that, with Scarecrow and Tetch out of Arkham, it was thought that they might seek to revenge themselves against Oswald. It was Oswald, after all, who stopped Jerome from dumping Crane’s toxin on the city. Then, there was what Oswald said at his press conference...”  
“I see.”  
“But I didn’t find any evidence of that. No exotic chemicals. No signs that he was restrained. No defensive wounds. His security guards didn’t report anything unusual. He had no visitors that night. He didn’t receive any phone calls. There was a note.”  
She raises her eyebrows. “A note. What did it say?”  
“Off the record.”  
“Obviously.”  
“It said, ‘Jim, I’m sorry’. It’s not in the file.”  
“I can see why.”  
“It was a suicide, plain and simple. As plain or as simple as these things ever are.”  
Leslie frowns. “The note aside, why do you think he did it?”  
Lucius smiles sadly. “That’s your area of expertise, not mine.”  
“I thought all areas were your area of expertise,” she says bitterly.  
Now, he really does look sad. She’s hurt him. Later, she’ll apologize. It was the shock. “If the things he said at the press conference were true, he’d had a hard, painful life. Maybe it was too much for him.”  
“Why does Jim think he did it?”  
“Jim doesn’t have an opinion.”  
“I find that hard to believe.”  
Lucius sighs again. “Jim feels responsible. Sending Oswald to Blackgate was the right thing for the city, but Jim’s only human.”  
“That, he is,” Leslie says. What does she mean by that? Sooner, rather than later. “I’m sorry, Lucius. This is a shock. I can’t say that I cared for Penguin, but… no one should go like that.”  
“No,” Lucius says, “no one deserves to feel that kind of despair.”  
“Thank you for talking to me. Believe it or not, this helps.”  
“I understand. Lee… don’t be a stranger. You can talk to me any time you need to. About anything.”  
She smiles. “You’re a good friend, Lucius. You’ve been such a good friend to me, and to Jim.”  
“As both of you have been to me.”

_COLD DUCK_

_Oswald Cobblepot has taken his secrets to the grave. Just as he was on the cusp of revealing what he promised to be shocking truths about Gotham’s best and brightest, the renowned businessman, one-time mayor of Gotham, and rumored underworld figure took his own life. Cobblepot, whose age was unknown, but who was thought to be between forty-five and sixty, was found unresponsive in his penthouse by a member of his personal security, the gun still smoking in Cobblepot’s hand. The cause of death was later confirmed by the Gotham Medical Examiner’s office: a single self-inflicted shot to the head. Cobblepot was alone in his home, aside from his security guards, who were not present in the room at the time of his death. He’d spent the evening alone, hadn’t gone out, hadn’t received any phone calls. He’d enjoyed a rich meal, drunk lavish quantities of alcohol, and taken a tranquilizer, the autopsy report stated. While he was certainly intoxicated, he wouldn’t have yet been incapacitated by the combination of drugs. Those are the facts._  
_The rest is speculation._  
_The candor of the GCPD on the subject hasn’t stopped people from wondering if maybe, just maybe, it was murder, after all. Cobblepot didn’t want for enemies, especially in light of his recent revelations. There’s also what was unsaid. What did Cobblepot leave out at his press conference? What was he saving for his memoirs? Round up the usual suspects. There is, of course, Barbara Kean, now a legitimate businesswoman known for her philanthropic work, long rumored to be on the wrong side of the law. Cobblepot alleged that her personal relationship to Commissioner James Gordon had allowed her to escape prosecution for her crimes; a fate Cobblepot did not avoid, having been sent to Blackgate for ten years by Gordon. Cobblepot also claimed that Gordon had been involved with Sofia Falcone, rumored to have followed in her father’s footsteps. Another dangerous woman made an appearance in Cobblepot’s tale of murder and mayhem: the legendary gangster, Maria Mercedes “Fish” Mooney, whom Cobblepot claimed had cultivated a relationship with decorated GCPD detective and one-time acting captain, Harvey Bullock. On the more exotic front, Cobblepot stated that cult figure, Jerome Valeska had sexually assaulted him, prompting threats of a legal response from Valeska’s brother, Jeremiah. Both Valeskas have had their share of unstable acolytes, leading to the speculation that one of them, perhaps even the Scarecrow and the Mad Hatter, recently released from Arkham and now missing, took revenge on behalf of their leader. Other criminals were known to bear a grudge against Cobblepot, including “Poison” Ivy Pepper, now a patient at the new Arkham Psychiatric Hospital. Speaking through her lawyer, Pepper said, “Humans are garbage. For once, the trash took itself out.” Cobblepot had also alienated Victor Fries, known as Mr. Freeze, who’d claimed in the past that Cobblepot had repeatedly stiffed him on payment for services rendered. Bridget “Firefly” Pike was once heard to remark, “Working for Penguin sucks”, and is known to have gone to work for Jerome Valeska before his death. Cobblepot’s head of security, Victor Zsasz, was once known as a loyal retainer of Carmine Falcone’s, and had publicly pulled away from Cobblepot after Falcone’s murder, of which Cobblepot was suspected, and still remains unsolved. When asked for comment, Zsasz said, “Jeez, why’d you have to go and bring up the past? Can’t you see I’m grieving?” Asked for his thoughts, another member of Cobblepot’s security team, Wendell “Headhunter” Wright, who was said to bear a grudge against Cobblepot for reasons unknown, asked if this reporter knew of anyone who was hiring._  
_No comment._

What the hell happened?  
How do I know? Anyway, who cares? Oswald punching his own ticket saves us a lot of headaches.  
Maybe…  
What? You think that Hugo Strange is going to break himself out of the federal pen and come to Gotham just to resurrect Oswald?  
No. It’s just a little too convenient.  
It sure isn’t convenient for Oswald. Anyway, didn’t you go see your friend?  
Yes.  
And didn’t he give you proof that Snow White’s dead?  
I saw the autopsy report. I saw the photos.  
Ooh, photos. Color?  
Black and white.  
Boo.  
I didn’t see the body, though.  
You think he’s lying to you?  
It wouldn’t be the first time.  
So, go back. Rifle through some drawers until you find the dead duck, and check his pulse, yourself.  
It would look suspicious.  
No shit, it would look suspicious.  
I need someone else to do it.  
Lee, don’t shit a shitter. You won’t be satisfied until you do it yourself. Make up some lame excuse, go to the damn morgue, poke the dead body, then get on with your life.  
We’ll see.  
Well, make up your mind, PDQ. They probably want to bury him, at some point. Stuff him, and set him up in the lobby of the GCPD. Something.  
Why didn’t Jonathan and Jervis get to him first?  
I told you, I don’t know. I wasn’t sitting on them twenty-four hours a day. It probably takes time to, like, do that Mr. Wizard stuff. Maybe they weren’t ready yet.  
Maybe someone tipped Oswald off.  
Now, you’re just being paranoid. Who the hell was going tip him off? Me? You? Scarecrow? The other one? If they had, wouldn’t he have just gotten out of town, gone into hiding?  
True.  
It was just a coincidence. They do happen, even in Gotham. The strain probably just got to him. Not everyone’s built for this life. He was always highly-strung. When he was in Arkham, Strange really did a number on him.  
What about you?  
What about me?  
What did Strange do to you when you were in Arkham?  
Nothing, if you want to know the truth. My stay was pretty uneventful. I was still recovering from falling out of a window, so I did a lot of napping. I had a lot of physical therapy. Spent a lot of time in the Jacuzzi. It was kind of like a spa, now that I think of it. A gross spa.  
You never talk about it.  
What’s there to say? Strange decided that I was good as new and sane as ever, and he let me out.  
But you weren’t.  
Harsh words from the lady who injected herself with the Tetch virus, and pulled a Bonnie and Clyde with Nygma. And what about you putting two in Sofia Falcone? Or is that just a rumor?  
Let it go.  
Well, now, that Oswald’s dead, we can all let it go. So, let’s just leave the past in the past, huh, Lee?  
Sure.  
Anything else? Wanna make a lunch date? Go to Saks together, and look at handbags?  
Fuck you, Barbara.  
Oh, Lee. If only.


	2. Fingered

_BI The WAY_

_Nick “The Stripper” Escada, associate of Salvatore Maroni, Jr., has been going too far with the colorful anecdotes. Escada recently got pulled in by the GCPD after stating loudly in front of numerous witnesses that he had killed Oswald Cobblepot. The younger Maroni chimed in, saying that he would have done it himself, but he “didn’t want bird brains on [his] nice new suit”, implying that he’d asked Escada to do it. Citing a lack of evidence, the GCPD let Escada go. Escada’s lawyer said of the incident: “It was big talk to entertain friends after a couple of glasses of wine at dinner.”_  
_The enmity between Cobblepot and the Maroni family is well-known, going back some twenty years, to when Cobblepot briefly worked as manager of the Maroni-owned restaurant, Bamonte, closed after the death of Maroni, Sr., but about to be reopened in a new location by Maroni, Jr. Underworld lore has it that Cobblepot was responsible for the death of an associate of Maroni, Sr., Frankie Carbone. But what of the long-standing rumors of a conflict of a more personal nature between Maroni and Cobblepot?_  
_An unequivocal response from the widow of Maroni, Sr., Teresa Maroni: “Yeah, my Salvatore, God rest his soul, went both f****** ways. Why the f*** do you think I married him? Everybody knew it, but if you tried to make something of it, he’d break your God damn face. And let me tell you, he would have broken off his own d*** before sticking it into that little punk, Penguin, may God rest his soul.”_  
_And that’s an exclusive quote._

It has the ring of a recurring nightmare. All that’s missing is the public nudity. How many times has Leslie been called up in front of some committee or other, been told to explain herself? In her heart, she knows this is the last.  
“I take full responsibility,” she says. It’s over. It’s done. She’s exactly where she knew she’d end up. She’s dead, and buried. The only thing left is to put on a good show.  
“District Attorney Dent-” one of the members begins.  
“DA Dent was acting in the public's interest. I convinced him to sign on to the initiative. I bombarded him with statistics, figures from other jurisdictions that had tried similar programs to great success. If the DA is guilty of anything, it’s optimism.”  
“Be that as it may, you couldn’t have acted alone. You needed his cooperation.”  
“I take full responsibility,” she repeats.  
“What of Commissioner Gordon?” someone else asks.  
“Commissioner Gordon was in an impossible position. The DA’s office and the Board of Health had already signed on. He couldn’t work against them, but he’s only ever enforced the law as written. He was skeptical, but he did his best to give us the benefit of the doubt. Now, it’s the GCPD that has to deal with fall-out.”  
“The Commissioner had no advance knowledge of your plan to release Jervis Tetch and Jonathan Crane?”  
“No.”  
“I find that hard to believe.”  
“It was a policy decision, made by the staff at Arkham. We didn’t go through the GCPD. The facility where Tetch and Crane were living has its own security. The police only get involved as a last resort, as with any other citizens.”  
“Why did you think that it was safe to let these known criminals back into society?”  
Leslie sighs. “They’d both made tremendous progress. They were taking medication. They were seeing a psychiatrist. Both were continuing their education. In addition to this, they had a personal relationship. I thought, perhaps naively, that they’d stay out of trouble, if not for their own good, then for each other. Discounting their criminal activities, they were like any other ordinary middle-aged couple who’d experienced setbacks, and were trying to lead normal lives.”  
“What do you know about their escape?”  
“Only what the halfway house staff and the GCPD have told me. On the night of February fifteenth, they had dinner in the communal dining room, and that was the last that anyone saw of them. Nothing was missing from their room. Nothing was out of place.”  
“Tetch is a gifted hypnotist. Isn’t it possible that he could have… mesmerized one or more people into recalling the events differently than they occurred?”  
“Anything’s possible, but he needs a watch or another device… a metronome, something like that, to do it, and one of the conditions of his probation was that he couldn’t own anything of the kind.”  
“What of the phone call?”  
“What phone call?” Leslie looks at her lawyer.  
“The phone call logged by the halfway house’s switchboard operator at 9:15 PM, on the night of the fifteenth. According to the phone log, it lasted approximately two minutes.”  
“I don’t know anything about that. I’d imagine that the police traced the number.”  
“The number was masked.”  
“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about it.”  
“In their… chats with you, Doctor, neither Tetch nor Crane spoke about old associates?”  
“I only did their in-take interviews, or spoke to them pertaining to specific matters, like the conditions of their probation. Without breaking doctor-patient confidentiality, I can tell you that this was only discussed in the context of my warning them against speaking to old associates. Anyway, it’s a matter of public record who their associates were.”  
“Including Jeremiah Valeska, housed in Arkham Psychiatric Hospital as of January third.”  
“Valeska’s totally restricted. No one sees him but his lawyer, and specially-trained staff.”  
“So, there’s no chance that he could have gotten a message to Tetch and Crane?”  
“It’s possible, but I can’t help you with specifics. As far as I was aware, Tetch and Crane were committed to recovery.” She takes a deep breath. She says the words they all long to hear. “I was wrong.”  
“You may leave now, Dr. Thompkins. We’ll call you back in when we’ve made our decision.”  
But Leslie knows.

_AN ENIGMA FROM E. NYGMA_

_When asked to comment on the death of his associate, Edward Nygma stated to this reporter:_  
_“This gamesome addition requires the subtraction of breath. What multiples life while apportioning death?”_  
_Uh… we give up._

What really hurts.  
“Harleen Quinzel? She’s half my age.”  
The board is not amused. “She’s fully qualified,” one of the members says. Leslie’s glad that she can never remember their names.  
“New blood,” says another. “It looks good to have someone at the helm with no baggage.”  
“So, what does this mean for me?”  
“We’ve made our recommendations, but Dr. Quinzel will make her own decision.”  
But Leslie knows.  
“Dr. Thompkins. Please, have a seat.”  
What really irritates.  
Quinzel could be Barbara’s sister.  
Leslie sits.  
“I’m sorry that it’s taken me so long to meet with you. This job really pulls you in all directions.”  
“There’s nothing to apologize for. I know what it’s like.”  
Quinzel smiles. “Of course you do.”  
“Let’s cut to the chase: I built Arkham. You have two choices. You can keep me on, in some bullshit position, with the understanding that I serve at your pleasure, and I continue to run the place, while you take the credit. Alternatively, you throw me out on my ass, and we see how long the place is still standing.”  
“Neither one of those seems very attractive from your point of view. Either you maintain control, but lose prestige, or your pet project becomes a historical footnote.”  
“The board wants me gone. The question is, what do you want?”  
Now, Quinzel grins.

You’re not the only game in town.

She’s scheduled. Like a manicure, or some idiot from a ladies auxiliary, begging for money for a crepe paper affair. She takes her seat. She crosses her legs. She reads a magazine. She waits her turn.  
The door to Barbara’s office opens. A young woman shows out Silver St. Cloud, followed by Babs.  
“Hello, Dr. Thompkins,” says Babs. She has Jim’s eyes, and Barbara’s smile.  
“Hello, Babs.”  
“How are you doing?” Silver asks, dripping concern like a ruptured liqueur chocolate.  
“I’m well.” She gives Silver’s concern right back to her. “And how are you doing, honey? The press have been very hard on your family lately. Totally unfairly, of course.”  
“Considering recent events, I think we’re all counting our blessings more than our misfortunes,” Silver says.  
“That’s a lovely way of putting it.”  
Silver draws her lips in tightly. “We have to be going, but it was lovely to see you.”  
“And you. Goodbye, Babs.”  
“Goodbye, Dr. Thompkins.”  
The young woman emerges from Barbara’s office again. “Dr. Thompkins, Ms. Kean will see you now.”  
Barbara sits behind a massive desk made of black marble. Behind her is wall made of glass, showing the full breadth of Gotham. Barbara always liked a view.  
“Lee,” she says, standing. “Drink?”  
“Sure. Thanks. I just saw Silver. She another of your good causes?”  
“What can I say,” Barbara holds out a glass of whiskey, “it looks good to have your own Poor Little Rich Girl.”  
Leslie takes the glass, lets the fragrance hit her before she drinks. “Or you keep her around for sentimental value.”  
Barbara rolls her eyes. “Let a girl maintain her tough facade.”  
“What’s the point of that?” Leslie drinks.  
Barbara touches her full glass to Leslie’s empty glass, and walks around back to her chair. “Oh, you got me. I like having the kid around. If you must know, she reminds me of Tabitha.”  
“I see the family resemblance. She’s a real little viper.”  
“Be nice, Lee. Especially since I know that you’re here to ask for another favor.”  
“How do you know that?”  
“You’re recently unemployed.”  
“Who told you that?”  
“No one had to tell me. It’s basic math. Arkham only needs one head of psychiatry.”  
“I was offered another position.”  
“But you told them to go fuck themselves. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”  
“What do you think I’m going to ask for?”  
Barbara smiles. “I’ve never known what you were after until you told me. That’s why I keep taking your phone calls. So, let’s skip the foreplay. You tell me what you need, and I’ll tell you if I want to give it to you.”  
Leslie sighs. “I want to go back to the Narrows.”  
Barbara frowns theatrically. “The queen misses her throne?”  
“I want to reopen the clinic.”  
“That’s very noble. What’s your angle?”  
“You’re familiar with trickle-down economics. Only, crime trickles both ways. At the end of the leash of every low-down bottom-feeder is someone significant. It’s pointless to go at them from their level, so you go at them from below. Learn a little something, follow its trail to something bigger.”  
“That’s mildly intriguing.”  
“People tell me things. Sometimes, without even meaning to. How do you think I knew that Crane and Tetch would be receptive?”  
Barbara raises her eyebrows. “Flaw in your plan: they never went through with it.”  
“Not my fault. Something unforeseen happened. Notice, however, that they haven’t turned themselves in to the GCPD. They were willing. They would have killed Oswald. Then, the GCPD would have cut them down, and that would have been that.”  
“So, what do I get for financing your little clinic? That is what you’re working up to, isn’t it?”  
“Anything I learn, I tell you. What you do with the information is none of my business. On the other side, you walk away from the Arkham debacle clean by making a public show of good faith. What possible reward could there be for Barbara Kean in helping the underprivileged get medical care? Aside from that, Tetch and Crane still owe you. You can keep them, for nothing.”  
“Show of good faith?”  
“A gift.”  
Barbara stands. “No strings attached.”  
“Relationships are built on unselfish giving.”  
“You know what I’ve always wanted to do? And now more than ever?”  
Leslie lets herself smile. “No, but from the look on your face, I can guess.”  
Slowly, Barbara draws closer. “Am I so off-putting?”  
Leslie turns her gaze down, and then back up. “Not at all.”  
“It’s been a long time since I mixed business and pleasure. It’s been a long time since I’ve wanted to.”  
“So, stop playing coy. It’s not like you.”  
Barbara throws her head back and laughs. “Oh, Lee-”  
That’s as far as she gets before Leslie kisses her.  
She’s laughing again, as Leslie walks her back, until they reach the glass wall. Leslie pushes against Barbara, holds Barbara against the wall, though Barbara’s not trying to go anywhere. In a soft, sleepy motion, Barbara turns her head slightly. “Lee. You exhibitionist.”  
“Shut up,” Leslie says. Why does it sound like an endearment to her? She kisses Barbara again, kisses her neck, pulls the collar of her blouse to the side. She runs her hand down Barbara’s hip, up her thigh, up between her legs. Barbara spreads her legs. She’s looking at Leslie, now, her mouth open, her eyes wide. Somehow, Barbara never loses the quality of incredulity. No matter what happens to or around her, no matter what she does, she’ll sometimes look like she doesn’t quite think this is real. It is, Leslie thinks, in a detached sort of way, Barbara’s least charming quality.  
It’s also her most charming quality.  
Leslie caresses Barbara’s face, kisses her again. Softly, as she works her fingers into Barbara’s panties. Barbara trembles. Her breath stutters. She makes sound between groan of pain and a gasp of surprise. She keeps making that sound as Leslie fucks her, louder or softer depending on how Leslie touches her, where, how much. Barbara’s eyes close, her head falls back. Her teeth press into her lower lip. She digs her fingers into Leslie’s arm.  
“Fuck me,” Barbara says redundantly. She brings her eyes back down to Leslie’s. She clamps her hand down on Leslie’s, makes Leslie grip her cunt. “Fuck me.” Then, it’s even less organized, a rough rub as Leslie keeps her hand in place, lets Barbara, in contradiction to what she’s just said, fuck herself. Leslie pushes a finger into Barbara, and Barbara moans, falls forward onto Leslie, now only her hips moving as she comes. Then, she’s leaning on Leslie completely, her breath moving her entire body. Like a drunk just waking up, she brings her head up slowly from Leslie’s shoulder. She gives Leslie that look of satisfaction that promises more to come.  
Yes.  
Much more.  
“I want one more thing,” Leslie says.  
Barbara smiles. “You bitch,” she says affectionately.  
“Are you still friendly with Selina Kyle?”  
“Trying to make me jealous,” Barbara says, running her finger over Leslie’s lower lip, “saying another woman’s name, after you’ve just been inside of me?”  
Leslie lets Barbara slip her finger into Leslie’s mouth. She takes Barbara’s hand, places it against her cheek. “This is business. Not pleasure.”  
“Oh, no,” Barbara says, and kisses Leslie, “with us, they’ve always been one in the same.” Her expression changes. “So, what do you want with the little urchin?”  
“Not such an urchin, now. She’s moved up in the world. Not that anyone could prove it.”  
“And that’s what interests you. Something untraceable.”  
“Exactly.”  
“I can contact her, ask her for a favor.”  
“Good.”  
“Are you gonna tell me what you want me to ask her to do?”  
“Later,” Leslie says, unbuttoning her blouse.  
Barbara smiles. Her nasty smile. “Yeah. Later.”


	3. If I Knew You Were Coming, I Would've Cooked Your Goose

_OUT-PATIENT_

_Why not just install a revolving door in Arkham? Not long after Jonathan “Scarecrow” Crane and Jervis “Mad Hatter” Tetch escaped from their halfway house, “Poison” Ivy Pepper sprung herself from her cell in Arkham. Leaving nothing behind but a trail of lichen-covered corpses, the verdant villainess has disappeared without a trace. Pepper was kept in solitary confinement, only allowed to see her lawyer, whose response when questioned on the matter was “No comment”. Pepper’s power over the natural world is formidable, so special precautions were taken in her housing, including a secure antiseptic chamber designed by Wayne Enterprises, leading to the question, could it have been an inside job? “Out of the question,” said a representative for Arkham, “Our staff is above reproach, thoroughly screened. Pepper was prescribed a cocktail of drugs meant to treat her pathology, and put on a special diet containing no plant products. Pepper simply found and exploited a flaw in the cell made to contain her. That’s the only logical explanation.” Lucius Fox, head of Research and Development at Wayne Enterprises, dismissed the idea: “Without getting into the more technical aspects, that chamber was specifically designed to stop the formation of the kind of organic compounds Ms. Pepper manipulates. In it, she’s effectively an ordinary person. It can only be unlocked from the outside.” An unnamed source at Arkham, however, refuted both of these assertions, stating that Pepper’s cell was far from impregnable, and that she had attracted a cult following among some of the staff. When asked to elucidate, the source simply said, “She’s so beautiful.” Another unnamed source reported that Arkham’s new head of psychiatry, Dr. Harleen Quinzel, secretly believes that her predecessor, Dr. Leslie Thompkins, is responsible in some way for Pepper’s escape. “Quinzel’s as paranoid as they come,” said the source. When asked for comment, Dr. Thompkins said: “I’ve put Arkham behind me. I made mistakes, and I’m learning from them. My commitment to the public good continues, and I’m concentrating on the future; not the past.” The future includes a state-of-the-art health center planned for the Narrows, site of Thompkins’ former triumphs. Is it possible that she’s also bent on resuming some of her less wholesome activities? “Nothing like that,” she assured this reporter, “I’ve dedicated my career to helping the most vulnerable in society. I tried to make a difference in Arkham, and I’m trying to make a difference in the Narrows.” What of Barbara Kean, who has publicly come out in support of Thompkins’ endeavor, and has, in fact, put up most of the funding? “Ms. Kean shares my commitment to helping those less fortunate. She understands that ignorance, fear and desperation are what drive crime in Gotham. We’re both trying to bring the city a better future.”_

An Interlude:

From the Gotham Gazette: DA Dent Changes Policy Position on Arkham

From the Gotham Herald: TWO-FACED HARVEY DENT

From the Gazette: Two Dead In Gas Attack Attributed to Jonathan Crane

From the Herald: CRANE IN THE NECK! GAS-MAD MAN CUTS OWN THROAT

The Gazette: GCPD Creates Task Force to Apprehend Arkham Inmates, Pepper, Crane, and Tetch

The Herald: NO MERCY FOR ARKHAM FREAKS: THE GCPD’S NEW OLD TAKE

The Gazette: Dr. Leslie Thompkins Breaks Ground on New Public Health Building In the Narrows

The Herald: QUEEN WITHOUT A KING: GORDON ABSENT AT THOMPKINS TRIUMPH

The Gazette: Dr. Leslie Thompkins Outlines Accessibility Features In New Health Complex

The Herald: THE LADY IS A RAMP

The Gazette: No New Leads in Pepper’s Escape From Arkham

The Herald: THAT DARN CAT! BURGLAR SUSPECTED PEPPER ACCOMPLICE

The Gazette: To Spite Difficult Election, DA Harvey Dent Reelected In Landslide Victory

The Herald: IT’S RAINING DENT!

The Gazette: Citing Concerns About Fear Gas In Cobblepot Death, Thompkins Requests Exhumation

The Herald: REHEATED CHICKEN

*

“Why wasn’t he embalmed?” Leslie asks. To spite herself, she brings the back of her hand up to her nose. For that, she makes herself fix her eyes on the body.  
“Religious beliefs, perhaps” Lucius says. “Oswald’s living will stated that he wanted to be interred quickly, and that his body shouldn’t be embalmed.”  
“When was the will made?”  
“Several years ago.”  
“What did the tests tell you?”  
“Nothing I didn’t know six months ago. Lee, I know what you’re doing.”  
“What am I doing?”  
Lucius turns those big eyes on her, and for a moment, she’s sure that he can see right through her. What does he make of what he surveys? Does he have understanding to go with that perception? If, indeed, he knows all, does he forgive? “You’re afraid that Jim was involved in Oswald’s death.”  
She lets her eyelids slip down. She stops herself from smiling. “Is that so strange? Considering some of the things that have happened?”  
“It was a suicide,” Lucius says gently. “No one holds Jim responsible, not anyone reasonable.”  
“What about unreasonable people?”  
“A popular theory is that Sofia Falcone put out a hit on Oswald. Another is that Tabitha Galavan rose from the dead and shot him.”  
Leslie smiles, but only a little. “That last one is pretty out there.”  
“I did you this favor because I want you to have peace of mind, but I think it’s time to let it rest.”  
Leslie looks down again at Oswald on the examining table. It’s still a shock. He doesn’t even really look like himself. Though, he doesn’t look like anyone anymore. A great wave of pity and disgust floods her. What did she do?  
That’s pointless, though. Start asking yourself that question, and you might as well dig your own grave. “Yeah,” Leslie says, and clears her throat. “Put him back.”

Are you satisfied?  
I suppose I have to be.  
I’d make a joke about it being the first time that Oswald’s satisfied a woman, but that would be in poor taste.  
You’re disgusting.  
Why don’t you come over here, and say that?  
Maybe I should.  
Lee?  
Yeah?  
I’m not wearing underwear.  
Try harder.  
I did my homework on that little piece of gossip you got from one of your pets in the Narrows, and I’ll have an extra something for you at the end of the month. You know. For your widows and orphans.  
What else?  
A friend of mine in the DA’s office says that Dent is looking into a problem that Quinzel had at her last place of employment.  
All right. I’m coming.  
Not yet, I hope.  
Shut up.  
Make me.  
Keep up like that, and I will.


	4. Body Unknown

_Harvey Bullock: The Gotham Gazette Interview_

_“Usually, it’s someone else buying the drinks in exchange for me telling my old war stories. Guess I do both, now.”_  
_That’s how Harvey Bullock begins, pouring himself a drink in his bar on the newly-renovated waterfront._  
_“I remember when this place was nothing but warehouses owned by the Mob. And that was the polite public face for what was really going down.” He sips his drink, suddenly looking cagey. “Not that any of that actually happened.”_  
_It’s a recurring theme with Bullock: admit, then qualify, usually with a joke, or retract._  
_“It was a different world, then,” he adds._  
_The veteran GCPD detective had believed that he’d “die with [his] boots on,” but Oswald Cobblepot’s announced memoirs and later suicide forced a change of perspective. “I realized I didn’t want to do it anymore. The job’s all right. Jim [Gordon is] doing a hell of job as Commissioner. I just didn’t want it all to end for me as a footnote in some Hollywood Babylon-style tell-all. Jump before you’re pushed. Know what I mean?”_  
_Bullock’s career has been a distinguished one. Joining the GCPD at eighteen “because my career prospects at that point were that, apprentice to the town drunk, or marry rich; and I didn’t know anyone rich,” he served the city for-_  
_“Don’t do the math,” he says warningly, with a sly smile._  
_Being partnered with Jim Gordon, then a new detective, turned Bullock around. According to Bullock, the rumors about his connection to the criminal underworld are overblown, “but not by much.” “That was what it was like in those days: cops or criminals, you were in it together. In some warped way, people like Carmine Falcone just wanted to keep the city safe and orderly.” The murders of Thomas and Martha Wayne changed everything, for Bullock and for the city. “Suddenly,” he says, “it was like the lid had been blown off. Everything you knew had been happening undercover was out in the open, and for someone like Jim, that was intolerable.” With Bullock a sometimes reluctant accomplice, Gordon began what would become a twenty-year campaign to clean up Gotham. “Was he sometimes overzealous?” Bullock says of Gordon’s tactics, “Yeah. But he never crossed the line. Jim’s a soldier. Not a killer. People like Cobblepot, people who don’t understand the difference, who think that the whole world is as crooked as them, don’t get that. Cobblepot was always second rate, had designs on becoming the next Fish Mooney or Carmine Falcone, but what Cobblepot didn’t understand was that Mooney and Falcone knew what side they were on. Cobblepot was in it for the glory, the celebrity. Look at him. He acted like he was some kind of movie star. Don’t wanna speak ill of the dead,” Bullock adds._  
_Fish Mooney was an equally flamboyant figure. What of her?_  
_“She never believed her own hype. It was all a show. Misdirection. She didn’t have Cobblepot’s ego. She knew that people thinking she was a dumb broad was the best thing for her. No one sees you coming if they don’t know they should be looking.”_  
_Is it true that he had a romantic relationship with her?_  
_“Yeah. That’s true. At the end of the day, we were just people. She was a hell of a lady, and for some reason, she could stand my company, so, yeah, when I was younger, we had an on-again, off-again romance.”_  
_Only a romance?_  
_“I didn’t work for her, if that’s what you’re asking. She would have been a fool to take on a cop that way. She knew that our first loyalty was to the badge. It was too much like a gamble: push too far, and a cop would push back. Fish wasn’t a gambler.”_  
_What of Commissioner Gordon’s rumored connection to various underworld figures, including Oswald Cobblepot?_  
_“Cobblepot pursued him, sure. In more ways than one, between you, me, and the ice bucket. Jim didn’t go for it. It was counter to everything he is. He might have accepted information from Cobblepot, but everyone has informants. And Cobblepot always walked away empty-handed. Jim Gordon is one of the most stand-up people I know. The standards that he applies to the GCPD, go double for him. And if he ever had tried to do something unethical, which he wouldn’t, Lee Thompkins would have pushed him right back in line.”_  
_And how is retirement treating Harvey Bullock?_  
_“I was lucky. I made it to the end of the line. I still have my health. Mostly. I saved my pennies. I have this place. It’s nice. I never thought that would be a word I’d use to describe my life, but here I am.”_

_“In more ways than one...”_  
He pushes the newspaper off of the table.

_FLOP_

_Retired GCPD detective, Harvey Bullock has been hitting his own product too hard. Bullock, 63, the owner of The Triple M Bar, the waterfront, was found on the threshold of his own business on Sunday morning, unconscious but uninjured, and certainly feeling no pain. Concerned by-standers rushed to his aid, and roused him. For their pains, they were thanked with a croaked, “Get the f*** out of my bedroom.”_

Thank you for seeing me.  
Think nothing of it, Commissioner, though I’m not sure what brings you here today.  
Bruce. You’re going to have to start calling me ‘Jim’ one of these days.  
Old habits die hard. Won’t you please have a seat, and tell me what’s on your mind?  
I’m concerned about Lee’s clinic.  
Why? Construction seems to be proceeding according to schedule. I haven’t heard about any problems with permits, or anything else that would delay the opening.  
You know that Barbara Kean has provided most of the funding.  
It’s a good cause. It’s gratifying to see Gotham’s business community get involved in projects like this. Wayne Enterprises has made donations to the effort, as well.  
I’m concerned that Barbara’s playing both sides.  
I’m not sure I know what you mean.  
Bruce, you know that she hasn’t always been a law-abiding citizen.  
I understood that the slate was wiped clean as the city was being rebuilt. It was easier to move forward than to dwell on things better left in the past, as long as those involved were sincere in their pledge to do better, moving forward.  
That’s what I mean, though. I don’t know if she has moved forward.  
Isn’t this something you should speak to Dr. Thompkins about?  
If I asked her, she would deny it. I’m afraid that she has tunnel-vision where her projects are concerned.  
What do you think I can do?  
If you have any information, any information at all, that I could take to Lee, to make her reevaluate her partnership with Barbara, I’d like to know about it.  
I can’t imagine what you think she might have told me. If Ms. Kean were involved in anything illegal, I’m the last person she’d confide in.  
You’re close to Silver.  
Silver and I are friends. Nothing more.  
You’re close to Selina.  
Not as close as I used to be. And I’m not sure that I like what you’re implying about her and Silver.  
I’m just saying that they might know more than they seem to.  
Commissioner-  
Bruce. Please. I wouldn’t ask unless I had serious concerns.  
I believe that your concern is genuine. I just don’t think that it’s well-founded. I’ve seen nothing that would suggest to me that any of these people are committing crimes.  
All right. Thank you, Bruce. I’m sorry that I asked.  
It’s all right. I understand.  
I also wanted to thank you for-  
The less said about that, the better. I don’t even truly understand what happened, and I think it’s better that way. I only got involved, to the limited extent that I did, because you assured me that it would prevent further bloodshed.  
Still, thank you.  
If that’s all, I have another engagement.  
We should talk sometime. It’s been a long time since we had a real conversation.  
I’d like that. I’m afraid, though, that my schedule for the foreseeable future has already been planned, and I won’t have very much time to catch up. I’m sure that I’ll see you, though, at some function or other.  
Yes.  
Please give my best to Dr. Thompkins.

_BAT/CAT SCRAP_

_The after-hours crowd were treated to quite a show in the theater district on Friday night. It wasn’t a new production, but rather, a brawl that spilled from the rooftops onto the street. The combatants: the vigilante crime-fighter known as the Bat, sometimes as the Bat-man, and the burglar who goes by “the Cat”. The two black-clad figures duked it out for some twenty-minutes, as by-standers watched, some snapping pictures. The Cat escaped, but without their prize: a bag of assorted baubles, which the Bat handed over to the uniformed officers who appeared on the scene._

I had to do it.  
Damn it, no you didn’t.  
What was I supposed to do? She had an order from the Board of Health. Any cases of suspected poisoning by fear gas have to be investigated. That’s straight from the mayor.  
So, what happened?  
Nothing. She seemed more disturbed by the condition of the body than anything.  
She didn’t ask any questions?  
She wanted to know about the will.  
And?  
I told her the truth: Cobblepot dictated his final wishes years ago. She wanted to know what the new tests showed, and I told her the truth about that, too. It wasn’t the fear gas. It was a suicide. Cobblepot was re-buried. End of story.  
Is it?  
I’m going to tell you the same thing I told Lee: I did you a favor because I want you to have peace of mind, but it’s over now.  
Lucius…  
It is, Jim. It’s over.

_The Gotham Gazette’s Fall Book Preview:_

_True crime fans are in for a treat this autumn. Retired GCPD detective, Harvey Bullock has promised a book that is, in his words, “half personal memoir, half memoir of the city”. Tentatively called “The City That Made Me”, it is unabashedly a response to the volume promised by Oswald Cobblepot before his suicide last year. On that subject, comes a collection of the wilder theories concerning Cobblepot’s demise, including the common (he was compelled to kill himself by hypnotist, The Mad Hatter) to the obscure (Cobblepot had recently received a terminal diagnosis) to the off-the-wall (Hugo Strange reanimated one of Cobblepot’s deceased enemies to stage the suicide). Still recovering from the shooting that left her in a coma for a decade, Sofia Falcone, with the help of journalist, Margaret Hearst, is releasing a biography of her father, Carmine Falcone, called “My Father, My Life”. Another biography of glamorous underworld figure, Fish Mooney hits the shelves in October. Miriam Loeb, daughter of former GCPD Commissioner, Gillian Loeb (deceased), currently living in the Arkham Psychiatric Hospital, has compiled a history of the GCPD, from its foundation, one hundred, fifty years ago, to the present day. Finally, a surviving victim of serial killer, the Ogre has written a study of his crimes, “Lies Without A Face: the Killer, the Cover-Up, the Victims”._

_IT’S A GAS, GAS, GAS_

_You can say this for Scarecrow and the Mad Hatter: they keep you guessing. Not content to commit ordinary robberies or wanton random killings, last Wednesday, they broke into the law offices of Haskins, Haskins and Ash. Leaving two corpses and a trail of raving survivors, their ultimate goal is unknown. Nothing was missing from the premises, and those attacked had no connection to either Crane or Tetch._

“You get what I asked for?”  
“Of course, Ms. Kean. Though what purpose it serves to you, I cannot see.”  
A smile. “It’s better that way.”  
“Ignorance as bliss? I have never believed this.”  
The smile fades. “You try to shake me down, and something very unpleasant will happen to your friend.”  
“But who could be a more formidable foe than the Scarecrow?”  
Jervis does not jump. He merely takes a large step backward.  
“Hi, there. You know who I am, right?”  
Jervis begins to wring his hands. He drops them at his sides. “Who among us does not know the name Victor Zsasz?”  
Mock-flattered, Victor presses his hand to his chest. “I’m touched. So, you and Crane go on your merry way, don’t ask questions, don’t make trouble, and everything will be peachy keen.”  
“And don’t leave town,” Barbara says. “I might need you again.”  
Jervis gives a shallow bow. “Always glad to be of service,” he says bitterly.  
“Zsasz will run you home,” she says.  
“Nice digs,” Zsasz says blandly when he pulls up in front of Jervis’ home.  
“Be it ever so humble.”  
Though, of course, Zsasz can’t hear him, with the ear plugs in.  
Jervis gets out of the car. He watches Zsasz drive away. He walks up the steps. He unlocks the door. He locks the door behind him. Leaning against the door, he breathes out, his hand on his chest.  
Things like this used to thrill, not chill.  
Jonathan is in his lab. The set of his shoulders tells Jervis that he’d rather not be disturbed. It’s better this way. Jervis has time to forget about what Barbara told him. He goes to the kitchen, makes a pot of tea. He takes off his hat and coat. His shoes pinch. They’ve pinched all day. Somehow, taking them off makes a world of difference. In his slippers and robe, in the warmth of his home, everything feels miles away. Barbara. Victor. The GCPD, ransacking the city for Jervis and Jonathan, too stupid to think that they might have left its center. Jervis drinks his tea. He reads for a while. When he feels himself beginning to tire, he puts his book back on the shelf, washes the dishes, goes to bed.  
Some time later, he feels the bed shift next to him. His sleep has been shallow, disturbed by dreams of Arkham. Cold, lonely dreams with no sound or scent.  
“Jonathan,” Jervis says, half question, half declaration.  
“Yes. I’m sorry I woke you.”  
Jervis turns on his side to face Jonathan. “Much better to be awake in the company of another than to be alone in slumber.”  
Jonathan lies down, puts his arms around Jervis. The smell of chemicals clings to Jonathan’s skin. Jervis breathes in deeply. “Did you have a productive evening?” Jervis asks.  
“Yes. I did. How did the meeting go with Kean? I thought it would be better for you to attend it alone. I think she finds me unpleasant.”  
“At refinement, she may play, but the lady has no taste.”  
“The feeling is entirely mutual. She looks at me like Valeska did.”  
“Perhaps for everybody’s sake, it’s time to make a clean break.”  
Jonathan holds him more tightly. “A frightfully good idea.”  
“There is a complication,” Jervis sighs.  
“What?”  
“I didn’t want to tell you, but Victor Zsasz is working for her.”  
“He’s just a man.”  
Jervis feels himself smile. Oh, Jonathan. Brave, terrible Jonathan. “While we are the stuff of nightmares.”  
Jonathan moves, positions himself on top of Jervis, one long leg pressed between Jervis’. “Perhaps this was what we were meant to do all along. Topple the queen, and Gotham’s ours for the taking. To reign over a hell of our own making.”  
Jervis kisses Jonathan. He holds Jonathan against him. The chemicals are in Jonathan’s taste, as well as his scent. There’s a small cut on Jonathan’s finger. Jervis sucks it until it opens. He tastes blood. Jonathan kisses him again, pulls off Jervis’ clothes, then pulls the sheets over them. He presses his face into Jervis’ neck, mouth on the old scar there. Jervis holds Jonathan against him. He wants to feel Jonathan. All of him.  
All he wants is Jonathan. All of him.  
“Hell,” Jervis breathes when he comes.  
This is how it should always be.

Barbara does a slow turn around her desk, letting Leslie take her in. It means that Barbara’s pleased with herself. Let her be. “So, our friends took photos of your little piece of paper, couldn’t risk stealing the original, and as you can see, it’s totally above board.”  
Leslie looks at the photos. The date on the document is five years earlier.  
“I guess Blackgate got him thinking about his mortality.”  
“Shut up,” Leslie says. It feels good to feel mean. Not for any reason in particular. Just because. She puts down the photos, grabs Barbara’s wrists, feels Barbara lean into her.  
Barbara looks up at her with those painfully clear eyes, her expression sort of sad, the way it is a lot of the time. Probably for no reason. They are what they are because it’s what they’ve always been. If it ever had any meaning, it’s long gone. There’s nothing left to do but what they do best. “Weren’t you supposed to make me?” Barbara says, again all grinning provocation.  
“Yeah.” Leslie pushes her away. Laughing, Barbara rubs her wrists as Leslie takes off her panties. “Open your mouth,” she says.  
Slowly, she feeds her panties into Barbara’s mouth. She turns Barbara around, lifts up Barbara’s skirt, bends Barbara over her desk. Fucks her.


	5. Ooh, Baby.  Ooh, Baby.  Don't Forget the Alcohol.

Where is he?  
You really think I should tell you?  
You owe me.  
Get a new song, Jim. We both know that one by heart.  
I can still hurt you.  
Funny how it’s worked out. Us right back where we began.  
What do you mean?  
We’re on the waterfront. You have a choice between me and Cobblepot. You choose him. Only, this time, it’s not a matter of life and death. It must be something else.  
Fuck you, Harvey.  
For all you know, I did what you never had the guts to do. Maybe I didn’t hide him away. Maybe I pocketed Wayne’s money, put a bullet in Cobblepot. If I had, they’d never find the body. The real one, I mean. There wouldn’t be a body to find.  
Harvey, just tell me.  
Why?  
Why, what?  
Why do you have to see him? It’s not cos you don’t trust me. We both know I’d never disobey an order from Commissioner Gordon. It’s not cos you think Cobblepot’s going to find a way to ruin you from beyond the grave. Whatever else he is, he’s a man of his word. At least when it comes to you. He’s never broken a promise to you. He even kept his promise to destroy you when you sent him to Blackgate. Until you gave him a reason not to. Now, he’s in your pocket again. Right where you like him to be. Or are you in his? I could never get that straight.  
Judging by the innuendo, it seems like you’ve made up your mind about why I want to see him.  
A stopped clock might be right twice a day, but an old drunk is wrong an awful lot. Tell me I’m wrong. Make something up. You know that I’ll believe you, whatever you tell me.  
No. You’re right. I need him, Harvey. I don’t know why.  
Believe it or not, I understand. Drug chooses the addict; not the other way around.  
It’s not…  
Can’t even finish the sentence, can you? Fine, Jim. Here’s the address. Go do what you have to do. After this, though, we’re finished. I’m not gonna sell out you or Lee. I’m bought and paid for, and I don’t respect much, but I do respect money.  
Thank you.  
Fuck you, Jim. Get the hell out of my place.

He has to drive to the edge of town, the quietly luxurious area that attracts the wealthy who value their privacy. The building is one of Bruce’s holdings. Up until recently, a foreign prince occupied the top ten floors. He returned to his kingdom, and no new tenants are lined up until next summer. The tourists have returned to Gotham. They come in the summer. They come alone, for the concerts, the museums, the shopping, the nightlife. They come in pairs, as honeymooners, vacationing couples. They come with their families, for the outdoor sports, the zoo, the beach.  
The summer’s over. It was a warm day, but as the sun sets, the air begins to chill. It’s a hard, harsh chill that lashes any bare skin. It’s only September, but the chill has its sites on your bones.  
“Go on up,” says the doorman.  
Jim feels his mouth open. He’s not surprised. It’s the doorman’s job to know exactly who is and isn’t allowed into the building, and in all likelihood, what they’re doing there.  
He’s afraid.  
For the first time, Jim wonders how much not just Harvey, but everyone knows. How transparent is he?  
One of the guards posted at the elevator pushes the button to open the doors for Jim. Jim takes the elevator to the top.  
The elevator doors open into an apartment. There’s a staircase ahead. A spiral. The curtains are drawn across the glass outer wall. The lights are dimmed. The elevator doors close. Jim advances. There’s a glass on the bar, a bottle next to it. The glass is half full. Jim picks it up. He drinks. He pours another drink. He downs that, as well. He hears before he sees. He waits a moment. He turns around.  
Oswald’s in a purple robe. His hair is flat against his head, still wet from the bath. He’s wearing glasses, leaning heavily on his cane.  
“I was wondering when you’d make an appearance.” His voice is rough, harder than Jim remembers, but there’s no malice in it. He’s only making an observation. He sounds that way because it’s late, and he’s tired.  
“I wondered, too,” Jim says.  
“Well, why don’t you help yourself,” Oswald gestures at the glass and the bottle.  
Jim pours another drink. “Thanks.”  
Oswald looks around. “Bruce is to be congratulated on his taste. It’s not as vulgar as his public image led me to believe.”  
“I’ll tell him.” Jim sips his drink.  
“So,” Oswald says, coming closer, “you didn’t come all the way here just to drink someone else’s booze. What do you want, Jim? An apology? My gratitude?”  
“Why?” Jim asks. It’s the only thing he can think to say.  
“Why, what?”  
“Why were you writing that book?”  
“Why do you think? To destroy you. It can’t be a mystery. Not even to you, as stupid as you are. As you’ve always been.”  
“I had to send you away.”  
“I know. Someone had to be seen to suffer for Gotham’s sins. It wasn’t going to be Harvey Bullock. And it wasn’t going to be Lee. And it definitely wasn’t going to be Barbara. And it definitely wasn’t going to be you. Who was left?”  
“I-” But Jim doesn’t know what he is.  
“I should ask you the same question. Why, Jim? Why does it always have to be me?” He’s not tearful. He’s not raving. He’s not even angry. He just wants to know. After everything, he just wants to know. It’s all that’s left.  
It feels like a defeat.  
If Oswald had screamed at him, hit him, shot him, it would have been easy.  
But Oswald’s never made it easy.  
“I can’t live without you,” Jim says.  
It’s such a stupid thing to say. The truth is always stupid. It’s always ugly and small and pathetic.  
“This conversation’s taken an unusual turn,” Oswald says, walks around Jim, goes to the bar, pours himself a drink. As he drinks, Oswald looks thoughtful, raises his eyebrows. “You know,” he says, “I once told someone something similar. Only, it was the other way around. Without me, he was nothing.”  
“What did he say?”  
“He shot me, and dumped me in the river.”  
What a strange feeling of vertigo it provokes. Jim could be looking at himself from far away. His reflection, though. Everything on the opposite side of where it actually is.  
“So, what do you really want, Jim? What are you here for? Absolution? I don’t keep it around.”  
“I don’t need you to forgive me.”  
“Maybe it’s better if I don’t. Maybe you’re happier at the center of hell. With the devil’s attention all to yourself.”  
“Hit me,” Jim says. He drank too much too quickly, and he’s starting to lose his feeling. He needs it back.  
“This isn’t the old days. I’m not going to hit you. I’m not going to shoot you. I’m not even going to threaten you. Anything you want done to you, you can do to yourself.”  
He looks into Oswald’s eyes. The one that isn’t the right color anymore, with the lid that falls slightly lower than the other. He looks at Oswald’s mouth, the lines around it. Oswald’s hairline is starting to recede. Oswald’s fat. He moves like an old man. Reality’s caught up with Jim. Everything is finally as worn-out as he feels.  
There’s only one thing left.  
Jim would have killed to avoid it. He would have died to avoid it. Now, he doesn’t really understand why.  
He kisses Oswald. When he thought about it, he imagined hitting Oswald first, kissing the blood off of Oswald’s mouth. He imagined grabbing Oswald, restraining him. He imagined throwing Oswald against a wall. He imagined doing it in an alley. He imagined doing it at the precinct. He imagined doing it in Oswald’s club. In Arkham. In Blackgate. He didn’t think it would be so soft. He didn’t think that Oswald would let it happen. For all that he knew that Oswald wanted it to happen, he thought that pride would stop Oswald from giving in. He thought that Oswald would make him beg, make him crawl. He thought that Oswald would demand something from him. He thought that he’d be expected to lie, to steal, to kill for Oswald.  
Oswald pulls away, takes off his glasses, lays his hand against Jim’s cheek. He kisses Jim. Slowly, he opens his mouth against Jim’s. Jim tastes the whiskey they’ve been drinking. He’s not so drunk, after all. He feels something. He feels too much. He’d imagined that, too. Imagined hating himself for it, forcing himself to continue because he hated himself. He goes on because he likes it. Because it feels good. That’s all it feels like, after all of that. It feels good to hold Oswald against him. He feels Oswald breathing. He feels Oswald’s heart beating. He runs his hand down Oswald’s shoulder, under the robe. Jim knows without looking that there’s a scar on his shoulder. Lucius had to mock one up on the corpse that’s buried in Oswald’s grave. There’s another scar on Oswald’s belly. Oswald doesn’t stop Jim from moving aside the robe, touching it. Oswald pulls back, slips out of the robe.  
“If you want me, you have to look at me,” Oswald says. There, for the first time, is bitterness. It’s right, Jim thinks. Everything is exactly where it’s supposed to be.  
But Oswald isn’t bitter when Jim kisses him again. He moves Jim’s hands down his body. And Jim feels him.  
“I need to lie down,” Oswald says.  
“Where’s the bedroom?”  
“I sleep in the one downstairs.”  
Leaning on Jim, Oswald picks up his robe. He puts his glasses in the pocket. He takes his cane. He leads Jim down a dark corridor. The only light is the light in the adjoining bathroom. Oswald moves toward it.  
“Leave it on,” Jim says.  
Smiling faintly, Oswald sits at the edge of the bed, then lies down.  
Jim has to be careful. Even when he’s been drinking, his back aches. His knees ache. He has to lower himself slowly onto Oswald. He has to get up again, when he remembers that he’s still wearing his jacket. He takes it off, looks around, pushes it to the other side of the bed. He takes off his tie. He unbuttons his shirt. All the while, Oswald watches him. What does he see? Jim keeps undressing, but Oswald’s expression betrays nothing. He leans over Oswald. He kisses him. Oswald leans up, places his hand on the back of Jim’s neck. Jim moves down slowly, presses into Oswald. He feels Oswald move against him, spread his legs. He pulls Jim down. He arches up into Jim. Jim hears him breathing. He hears the sounds Oswald makes. He puts his hands on Jim’s hips, pushes Jim into him, presses into Jim. Jim moves a little to the side, wraps his hand around Oswald’s cock. Oswald’s mouth is on his neck, his shoulder. He bites Jim. It’s a real bite. Jim feels his head fall forward, lets himself moan. When Oswald moves away, Jim touches his shoulder. There are dark streaks on his fingers.  
There’s a smear of Jim’s blood on Oswald’s cock.  
Jim takes his hand away, licks off the blood. It’s too little to taste like anything. He tastes Oswald, instead. He keeps going. His body aches. His shoulder is bright with pain. His jaw feels stiff. Oswald pushes up hard. Jim’s lips feel bruised. He keeps going.  
Oswald says his name.  
This is how Jim always imagined it.

**Author's Note:**

> For those who are interested, here is the solution to Edward's riddle:  
> Playing possum. "A gamesome [playing] addition [pos-SUM]".


End file.
